


Comorbidity

by Innsmouth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Incest, emotionally damaged girls not handling things well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innsmouth/pseuds/Innsmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is the company of paradoxical family. Rose, Roxy, and two lifetimes' worth of regret and resentment.</p><p>A post-game AU where both of the Lalondes knew (and were not particularly thrilled with) their mothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your mother is drinking again.  
At least, her current, juvenile iteration is.

  
“I remember,” she drawls, carelessly banging the empty bottle of Knob Creek down on to the table, “that you were never there for me. Like, at all. Who fucking does that, not give their kid any emotional support? What kind of frigid bitchmonster from beyond the rings of _Saturn_ -“ she spews flecks of saliva in her righteous indignation. “- _does_ that? Seriously. What the hell?”

“Being as I have no recollection of my alleged maternal failings, I haven’t the foggiest idea.” You’ve run through your book – Gregory Maguire’s _Wicked,_ a perennial favorite – and set it down on the table. The last of your yarn was delegated to the repair of a rather misshapen partial scarf yesterday, leaving you nothing to do but sit on the couch and mull over whether or not you should concede to boredom and turn on the television.

“See? That’s _exactly_ the shit I was talking about. All that pointless fucking passive-aggressive horseshit. ‘As you dedicate your time to binge-drinking so dutifully, I see no reason that you shouldn’t be able to adjust to an increased academic workload. You’ve certainly demonstrated that your capability for disciplined time-management is beyond compare.’ Who fucking says stuff like that?” She flops into a sitting position on the floor near your feet.

You permit yourself a small, satisfying burst of carefully restrained resentment as you respond. “You did, lest we forget who raised whom.”

“Oh, cry me a river. Fine, you win, we both screwed up.  You screwed me up, I screwed you up. It’s like a double reacharound of alcoholism and shitty parenting. God. They made a movie out of our dysfunctional bullshit, you know. It’s called _Mary-Kate and Ashley Fuck Each Other Over.”_

“The Olsens were twins, not chronologically displaced ectorelations of dubious exactitude.”

“Whatever. You get my point.” She leans back against the side of the couch and continues in a decidedly morose tone, picking at the weave of the carpeting with one hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that you never gave a shit one way or the other, never showed me any actual fucking affection. Guess you couldn’t, being as you never loved me. At least, it came off like that. If I was worth anything, you never showed it.” She’s moved throughout her lamentation, ending up sitting between your feet, gazing up at you from the floor.

In one universe or any, she was always difficult. But you can’t deny an echo of guilt that rings from somewhere in your psyche at her words. Though it wasn’t your timeline, you are yet culpable.

“If that’s how you choose to see it, then I suppose I must extend an apology. I’m hardly the type for flamboyant displays of devotion. If my natural tendency to reservation came off as frigidity, then I’m sorry.”

  
You think of your own mother, despised and yet admired, resented and yet willing to die for her ungrateful daughter.  
You look at this girl, and who she could grow to be.

“For whatever it may be worth, I’m sure that there was no lack of affection on my end, however unnoticeable it may have been.”

She suddenly pulls herself up and forward, and there she is, right in your face. The hand you managed to place on her arm to halt her rapid advancement was entirely ineffectual.

She’s so close.

It feels as though what air remains between the both of you has compressed itself into something coiled and buzzing and keenly palpable; a barrier composed of unanswered questions and unvoiced regrets. The fabric of her shirt slides from under your grasp as she leans forward, breaching that last defense borne by distance, and a few of your fingers brush against warm skin.  
“Do you love me?” she asks, close enough that you can taste the whiskey on her breath, can feel where she could be in the space of half a second, and there’s a ragged, desperate note in her voice that you know deep down isn’t from the drink.  
In the fading afternoon light, there’s something terrible in her face, a weakness that you dearly want to deny.

You say nothing.  
   
“Please, just fucking _answer me_ ,” she says, or tries to, because her voice cracks on the first syllable of _answer_ , and everything after is half- sobbed.  “No more bullshit, no more sarcasm, I just want an answer. Please.” She cups your cheek in one hand, a fingertip barely touching the lobe of your ear.  
You realize with a sort of uneasy appreciation that she’s beautiful like this, framed by the dying sun; an anguished Eurydice limned in gold. Your knees press against her hips as she leans closer still, the distance between you an inch, if that.  
“Do you love me?” she asks again, and this time you can hear the tears in her voice, see the eyeliner running down her face in damp greyish streaks. “Did you ever?”

Your bodies are pressed together by this point, her hips against yours as she gives you the most wrenchingly _needful_ look you’ve ever seen outside of an ASPCA TV spot. Where her chest touches yours, you can feel her breathing.  The tip of her nose bumps gently against your own.

She’s too close.  
This isn’t right.

Attempting to pull yourself away would prove ill-advised; there’s a hand on your wrist and another lingering on your cheek, and the cushions at your back mark the end of your wiggle room. You’re not sure that you want to move at all, and that in itself is unnerving on some distant level. At any rate, the primitive, reptilian part of your brain ought to be screaming at you to flee, to flee _now_ , but the synapses in question are curiously silent. On the contrary, there’s a voice in the back of your mind that’s saying yes, this is a position you ought to have been in sooner, and that you should endeavor to remain there. You’re not sure which is more frightening; that the voice exists, or that you’re inclined to listen to it. It occurs to you only now that your heart is jackhammering at a rate that feels fast enough to tear something loose, and that the room is hazy with heat worthy of Phlegethon’s roiling depths.

With all of your silent apologies, all of your far-too-late regrets, with all of the _I’m sorry_ s and _I never meant for any of this to happen_ s, all that you can manage is an unsteady “Of course.”

And then her mouth is on yours, and you taste tears and residual whiskey as the girl who you’re finding increasingly difficult to think of as _Mother_ kisses you.

A section of your brain shrieks that this _absolutely should **not**_ be happening **_EVER_** , but is quickly drowned out by the howling of a larger portion insisting that yes, yes it should, because _god do you want it to so very, very **badly**._

 __And then somehow you’re kissing her back, urgent and desperate, and her tongue is in your mouth as you tangle your fingers in her hair to pull her closer. Your lipstick is smearing, no doubt, but you can’t be bothered to care as you cling to your moment of twisted affection, your act of bastardized devotion.  As your tongue runs along her upper palate, she makes a small noise of approval before pulling away, leaning against you for support.  
She looks at you for a long, agonized moment. There is sorrow etched deeply upon her still-flushed face, and she gives up on holding back the tears.

Perhaps she was thinking of what you had just done.  
Or who you could yet be.

Somehow, she’s ended up in your arms, face pressed to your neck as she’s wracked by shuddering, heartfelt sobs. There’s a lump in your throat and whiskey on your tongue, and you find yourself in tears as well.

Whether from shame or sorrow or the purest sort of desperation, you can’t say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I realized that the ending to this chapter was stilted and godawful. 
> 
> Oops.
> 
> Fixed it, at any rate.

The next day is an elaborate foxtrot of mutual avoidance, an immaculately choreographed spectacle of slamming doors and hasty exits. You don’t even see her until noon; as you pass her on the stairs, she makes a hasty detour to the side, as far along the opposite wall as space allows.

She was always so terribly _obvious_ in her evasive maneuvers.

“I commend your incredible skill in avoiding interaction with me. Your prowess in the way of stealth is awe-inspiring. Why, I can hardly see you against the wallpaper.”

“Bite me.”

“Eloquent discourse is another of your strengths.”

“And being absolutely fucking impossible is one of yours.” Her retort comes out slurred and mushy; judging from the sound of it, she’s gone for the liquor cabinet already.

Typical.

“I do try.”

“I guess it comes easy.”

“It’s a gift, or so I’m told.”

You can feel her resentful stare hot on your back as you resume your descent, but you pay it no mind. She’d yet to meet her quota of murderous looks for the day, after all, and you guess that fills it. It doesn’t bother you.  
After being locked in an emotional cold war for years, petty shenanigans like this are nothing.  
As you continue on your way, she calls after you, hesitant.

“Hey, wait.”

You take another few steps, reach the less confined space of the landing, and pause. Your turn back to face her is deliberately unhurried; there’s no way you’re about to grant her the satisfaction of seeing your surprise.

You can’t do that.

“I’m at your beck and call, as ever.”

“God, will you just shut up for a second? I’m serious.”

“I’ve decided to abandon all worldly comforts and flee to a convent. I’m making the most of things before I take my vow of silence tomorrow.”

“C’mon, take a break before you throw on a habit and run off to join the Church of Sticking A Cork In It. Legit, though. I need to talk to you.”

“Pardon my abortive attempt at levity.” You prop one arm up on the banister, tapping your nails on the wood with an impatient _tick tick tick_. “What do you want?”  
Her gaze flicks away to the side, and she worries absently at a hangnail. The expression on her face broadcasts her desire to be anywhere but here, and you can’t really begrudge her that. Judging from her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and the pasty look of her skin, she’s not slept much, if at all. A guilty conscience in the lurid glare of morning, maybe.

Well. Wouldn’t _that_ be convenient.

She clears her throat, tongue flicking out briefly over dry lips. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened yesterday.”

Oh, yes. Guilty as hell, or at least acting the part.

You wouldn’t expect any less from her.  
Her technique is lacking, though. She must have honed her skills in the twenty-odd years between adolescence and raising you.  
A raised eyebrow is your only response for a good five seconds. Give her time to stew, to rue her words, to feel unease. You let her fidget for a moment, and then speak.  
“Are you apologizing for your dissolution into a seeping puddle of angst, or for violating my young and unwilling mouth?”

The look that she gives you is one of mingled disgust and irritation, lips curling into a contemptuous sneer.  
“ _Violating_? Are you _serious_? Bitch, _please_.” She takes a step down to nearer your level, every motion taunting and deliberate. “Pretty sure you were totally interested back there.”  
Another step down, and now she’s all accusatory spite. “You _loved_ it, you sick fuck!”

And you _had_ , damn it, you _had_ loved it and you had _wanted_ it, wanted _her_. You’re uncertain as to why, but you had.  
It’s hard not to think about the little noises she made in the back of her throat, or the way one hand pinned yours as the other slid under your shirt, furtive but shamefully welcome.

But you can’t think about that. You can’t let her be right. Not now, not here.

“Of course not. That particular level of depravity is one currently beyond my abilities. And yet,” you add, revoltingly sweet and entirely, entirely too innocent, “you certainly seemed to throw yourself into it with gusto. Perhaps there’s something you’ve simply been dying to get off your chest? I may not possess the proper qualifications for providing psychiatric counsel, but I’m certain that we can work through your little crisis. After all, the first step is admitting you have a problem.”

“ _Oh_ em fucking _gee_ , can you maybe _not_ get your shrink-fu on for five seconds? It’s like you can’t even let me say anything without twisting it into what you want to hear!”

“Perish the thought. As in all things, I strive for integrity. Your paranoia is no fault of mine, but if you want to discuss it then I’ll gladly oblige.”

She lets out a harsh bray of laughter. “Oh, fuck me gently. You sound like _you_.”

“What?”

“You. My _mother_. She of the mad literary skills and bitchin’ poker face. Lover of wizards and hater of pretty much everything else.” A pause and then, blatantly designed to wound, so obvious that it should be _funny_ : “I must have turned out like that, too. I guess you take after me.”  
A clumsy jab, but it stings regardless.

There are very few things that spur you to actual anger. They are rare and elusive beasts, much like unicorns, but they do exist.

Being compared to your mother is one of them.

But you can’t let her see that she’s provoked you.  
She knows. She _has_ to know. You _know_ she knows.  
But you can’t acknowledge it, lest she gain an advantage.  
At this point, your best bet is to go on the offensive. Conversational combat is familiar ground, and far more stable.  
“Your obvious difficulty in giving voice to your repressed desire is tragic, and my eyes are practically brimming with tears. Excuse me, I think I need a tissue.”

“It just _happened_ , okay? It was a mistake and I didn’t mean it, so will you just _lay off_?”

“My only concern is for your welfare, of course. On that note, I advise you to seek counseling for your aberrant urges.”

“Will you just fucking _stop_ already? I’m trying to apologize!”

“My heart bleeds for your ordeal, it really does. But clearing your conscience doesn’t actually absolve you, no matter how soundly you may sleep tonight.”

“Oh my _god_ , you’re fucking insufferable. Do you actually listen to yourself when you talk, or do you just spew whatever psychobullshit comes to mind first?”

“Like a parrot, I regurgitate whatever phrases I’ve been taught. Thanks to your patient tutelage, I’ll soon be adding to my repertoire such gems as, ‘fuck off’, ‘why the fuck is the rum gone’, and ‘it was just a mistake, I didn’t mean to mack on you.’”  
She’s openmouthed in anger and disbelief; there’s the opening, and you take it. “Perhaps with time, I’ll master more complex utterances like, ‘Of course I wasn’t enthusiastic, don’t be fooled by the way that I threw my—‘”

“ _Shut up_.”

Pity.  
You were just getting into the swing of things.

Her face is slowly acquiring the unfortunate blotchy coloration that comes with rage. “Fuck you. _Fuck **you**_. I was more wasted than half of fucking Ireland, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Don’t you fucking _dare_ tell me I _threw myself into it_ , you snarky little _shit_!”  
She either can’t or won’t meet your eyes. You’re not sure which.

Oh, she knows.  
She knows entirely too well, and she knows you do too.  
But neither one of you is going to say a word, because you’ve danced this dance before and it always plays out the same.

Absolutely _typical_.

“ _Really_ ,” you hiss, “In that case, permit me to beg absolution for my egregious misperception. You can understand how I could arrive at such a conclusion, however, as you were so terribly eager.” Even from your position on the landing, you can see her hands ball into fists and her shoulders tense upward as your verbal thrust strikes home. There’s a certain ferocious joy in provoking her like this, a far cry from the usual restrained contempt the both of you have for one another.

It’s almost refreshing.

She takes the last few steps downward ever-so-deliberately, leaning one-armed against the banister with studied insouciance. Despite her cultivated air of apathy, there's no hiding her rapidly reddening face or that her smile is more akin to a baring of fangs.  
“You know,” she says, sickly-sweet and savage, “that’s _really_ _funny_ , because I could’ve _sworn_ that _you_ weren’t totally freaked by it _either_.”

“Such a shocking accusation. I must confess that I’m rather appalled at your audacity.”

Her laughter sounds as though it’s been filtered through a throat full of knives. “Cut the saintly shit, Joan of Snark. Just _admit_ it already. We’re both guilty of felony fucked-up makeouts and three counts of being totally fucking gross.”

“Hardly. _I_ definitely wasn’t the one slobbering over my paradoxical relative in such a horrendously lascivious manner.” Another dry _tick tick tick_ of your nails on the banister.

“Did I hear you complaining? _Nooooooo_.”

“For the simple reason that you’d shoved your tongue down my throat. Rather gracelessly, might I add.”

“I’m the fucking Jacques Cousteau of tonsil-diving, thanks. And the reason you’d shut up is because you were _really_ into it.” Her hateful, knowing smirk is absolutely maddening, and a frisson of fury runs down your spine.

“Despite any delusions you may harbor as to the contrary, I was never about to entertain your misguided depravity on a whim.”

“Oh, _bullshit_ ,” she says, dripping scorn and a sort of vicious amusement. “What happened was nasty as hell, yeah, and I wish I hadn’t done it, but at least _I_ can admit I did.”

“I’m not responsible for your terrible impulse control.”  
The look that you send her way could freeze oceans.

She remains profoundly unaffected.

“Look, my point is that there was some royally fucked-up stuff on either end, and it was your fault as well as mine. We kind of both reached for the gun on that one.”

“Considering that responsibility for the initiation of our merry little farce of passion doesn’t lie with me, I’m not particularly inclined to concede that point.”

“Of _course_ it’s not your fault. It _never_ is. _Every- **single** -fucking- **time**_. It’s always _me_ who screws up, right?” She takes a single, deliberate step forward, firmly within the boundary of your personal space. This isn’t what you had expected. This isn’t what you had expected at all.

“Always _my_ fuck-ups, _my_ apologies, always _me_ standing there like an idiot while you just looked at me like I’d broken something important. Pissed off? _Noooo_ , not _you_! Just so **_disappointed_**. But you never fucking _said it_. It was like I wasn’t fucking **_good enough_** to hear what you thought of me.” Her façade of control is cracking at the edges, pent-up _something_ beginning to show through like red-hot steel flaking under the hammer. “And even now, even _fucking **now**_ , after you’ve died like ten fucking times and ended up being a fucking _kid_ , I’m _**still** not fucking good enough for you_! What the hell is your _problem_? Do you seriously hate me **_that fucking much_**?”

The worst thing is the way she looks at you; frustrated fury and hurt held in check by a thin veneer of _why_.

You can’t answer her question.  
Any of them, really.

You fumble for a moment, but manage a response.

“Despite your lamentation of my maternal failings, I seem to be unable to recall ruining your very existence to such a catastrophic degree. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve better things to do than engage in puerile bickering over which of us is more at fault for what.”

You push off from the banister, intending to leave.

She slaps you across the face so hard that the world rings tuning-fork high.

It takes you a few seconds to recover from the blow.  
There’s something in your mouth that tastes of salt, and when you reach up to touch your throbbing face, your hand comes back bloodied. There’s a dull pain in your lip, and when you probe gently with your tongue, you discover that it’s split slightly.  
You can’t help but grudgingly concede that she’s certainly got an arm on her. It feels as though she full-on _clocked_ you.

Damn.

You bite back an instinctual _what the hell_ , about to formulate a more eloquent response, when you notice that she’s not so much trembling as _quivering_ ; eyes a little too bright, the line of her mouth a little too hard.

“Don’t you fucking walk away,” she says, unsteady-voiced, “don’t you ignore this like everything else I’ve ever done.”

You manage a shocked and distant “What?” before she plows ahead.

“This isn’t going to go away if you don’t acknowledge that it happened. _I’m_ not going away, goddamn it, no matter how bad you want me to,” She takes a shaky breath before continuing, “So would you just fucking _talk to me_ for once?”

You can’t do that.  
You can’t bend, can’t concede, can’t say _okay, let’s talk then_ , because then you would be weak and she would win.  
She wouldn’t hate you for it. She’d just pity you, and that would be worse because then you wouldn’t even be good enough to hate.  
She can’t win. You’ve never let her, not for sixteen years or a pair of universes, and you won’t start now.

 

There’s a long, winter-desolate moment before you can bring yourself to reply.

 

“I am _not_ ,” you say, wiping your bleeding lip with one knuckle, “about to sit down for couples therapy with someone who’s just backhanded me.”

With that, you turn away and casually take the last few steps to the ground floor, your customary composure outwardly intact.

You can’t let her see how badly she’s shaken you.

You can’t.

You can’t _ever_.

She cries out from behind you, furious. “Oh, you _bitch_! Get back here and _**listen to me** for once in your fucking life_!” But there’s a raw, despairing note in her voice that she can’t quite mask, turning _get back here_ into _don’t leave me, not again_.  
  
You stop dead in your tracks at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
You should stay.  
Talk to her.  
Work things out.  
Maybe you should just _try_ , just this once.  
  
She isn’t your mother. At least, she isn’t your mother as you knew her.  
  
Perhaps this time, things could be different.  
  
In all likelihood, you’re going to regret this; things will go horribly wrong, as usual.  
  
Still, there’s the potential for a different outcome, given the significant variance between her twin iterations, the ones that you privately term Mother and This Girl.  
  
This is probably a terrible idea.  
  
But maybe not.  
  
Maybe you ought to stop considering it all as a battle to be won.  
  
You turn back to face her, blood in your mouth and doubt in your mind.  
  
“Okay, then,” you say, “I’m listening.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then six hours later, I realized that I'd posted this without italics.
> 
>  
> 
> Oops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after seven months, the HSO, and a lot of personal upheaval, I finally managed to write and post this.
> 
> My apologies for the wait.

She goggles at you in sheer incomprehension for a moment, resembling nothing more than a speared fish, and then manages a thin “You’re kidding.”  
  
This is not a situation that ought to be panic-worthy.  
If that’s the case, then why are you nervous?  
  
“I’m humoring you. There’s a slight difference.”  
  
You never really _have_ tried before, have you? It was invariably Mother who reached out, extending the vaguely gin-scented olive branch, and it was invariably you who rebuffed her overtures. Spurning her was far easier than reaching an agreement, because that would have meant that you would have needed to bend.  
There’s an odd, queasy twist in your stomach as she just _stares_ , disbelieving. The revelation that she’s so utterly baffled by any inkling of cooperation on your end is worrying; you can’t tell if you’re more concerned by her reaction or that you’re concerned to begin with, and you don’t know what that says about you.  
  
Your so-called conversation (or lack thereof) has swollen to an unnerving size, so you seize on the first sentence that comes to mind and break it, punching through silence in heavy-handed desperation. “You were saying something?”  
  
The seconds drag on. When she actually speaks, it’s not the condemnation that you expect – just a single, tired question. “Why do you do this?”  
  
“Do what, exactly?”  
  
“Why do you treat me like the only reason I’m alive is to fuck you over? You either pretend I don’t exist or turn every single time I try to get you to even _notice_ me into me just being a bitch. I don’t _want_ to fight you, but I end up doing it anyway. What did I do to you? Not your mom—“ she levels an accusing finger  “— _me_. Jesus Christ, I didn’t fuck up your whole life, I’ve only even _known_ you for like six months. What did _I_ ever do to you?”  
  
“I don’t—“ _know what you’re talking_ _about_ , you want to say, but that wouldn’t be strictly true. You had been avoiding her, at least.  
It’s been difficult, having your mother back. You keep expecting her to lapse into pity and silent disappointment or for a well-crafted little jab at your flaws to come your way, despite that she has yet to do so.  
  
It’s left you perpetually on edge.  
  
“You don’t what? You don’t think there’s anything wrong? You don’t see why I’m making a big deal out of this? You don’t know why you even _bother_? What did I do, goddamn it?” As she takes another step down the stairs, her hands ball themselves into fists. “What did I _do?”_  
 __  
That is an **excellent** question, sneers a particularly pernicious piece of your mind. _What has she done, exactly, apart from trying to get your attention?_  
  
Well, she’s an irritatingly exuberant teenager teetering on the brink of alcoholism, she’s intrusive, she’s obnoxious, she _meddles_ , she’s technically your _mother_ , and the list goes on.  
  
Except that it doesn’t, really.  
  
Everything boils down to the fact that she is who she is, right down to the ways in which she attempts to finagle her way into what passes for your good graces.  
You’d expected her to continue her ham-handed attempts at convincing you of her genuine interest, and in that regard she hasn’t disappointed. Every predictable feint was exactly where you knew it would be.  
  
But predictable feinting would be something that your mother—that _she_ would have done before. Currently, however, she’s opted for what looks like genuine earnestness.  
  
How clever of her, to take an unfamiliar route.  
  
You’d humored her, of course, as well as upped the stakes (silver-chased shotguns, three cases of Stolichnaya as a perfunctory thank-you for some small outing, sneaking Jane here on a flight from Seattle), but her efforts had dwindled as though she knew you resented them.  
Telling her the truth isn’t half as rewarding as you’d imagined.  
The words are bittersweet in your mouth as you speak them, though they’re not the ones you intended to say. “You’re _you_ , and that’s enough.”  
  
Her mouth twists into a disbelieving half-grin, more a baring of teeth than actual expression. “What kind of bullshit answer is that?” Graceless, she takes a seat at the foot of the stairs.

"One that suffices. The real issue here why you still persist in your futile attempts to—“ don’t say _capture my heart_ , that is a _terrible_ choice of words, “—coerce me into perpetuating the illusion of familial bliss that you so crave?”  
  
She drops her head into her hands, and the accompanying “ _Oh my goooooood_ ,” comes out muffled. “Why are you so hung up on this?I’ve barely even done anything for you because you turn it into some stupid contest!”  
  
“Contest? I’m just reciprocating your affections.”  
  
“God, can you just… _stop?_ Please?” Her eyes are on yours, bleary and dull; she’s picked her head back up in order to meet your gaze. “Do you have to get all weirdly obsessive about proving you’re better than me or whatever? Can’t we just _get along_ like normal people?”  
  
It was her own fault, of course. She had begun your private war of sentimental gestures; regardless of whether there was any genuine sincerity behind them (you’re not sure) or whether she actually loved you (maybe she did), your conflict was fated to drag on as eternally as a Balkan feud. Your inability to take a perceived slight lying down only aggravated the conflict; you _had_ to come out ahead, you _had_ to.  
  
You couldn’t stop if you tried.  
  
Then again, you never tried very hard.  
  
“…I just thought it would work out this time, you know? I never wanted this.” As she wipes her eyes on the back of her hand, you realize that she’s crying again, or near enough. “I just wanted you to actually care, that’s all.”

                                                                                                                        
The silence stretches on anew after that, a scratched-out line in the script you’re both condemned to follow.  
  
The conversation is going nowhere, a tuneless piece of anxious arpeggios.  
There are dust-motes dancing in the weak winter sunlight; neither they nor the two of you are going anywhere, instead merely whirling in aimless patterns that end only when you fall.  
  
With that thought, the contrast of your sock-clad foot against the floor becomes inordinately interesting.  
  
What do you even say to that? For once, you’re completely at a loss.  
  
She’s bested you once more, damn her.  
  
There’s nothing you _can_ say.  
  
After several excruciating seconds, she pats the riser next to here. “C’mere.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just _come here_ , okay?”  
  
You could make some excuse, slip away into the recesses of the house, breeze out the front door if you had to.  
  
But you’re so tired: tired of dancing, tired of fighting, tired of waking too early and too often.  
  
It won’t kill you to concede this once.  
  
Probably.  
  
Without a word, you cross what little distance there is between you and take a seat next to her on the stairs.  
  
She looks at you for a moment, leans over, and once more she is excruciatingly close.  
  
She’s _touching_ you again.  
  
You don’t willingly allow her to touch you; last night was a rare and terrible exception. It was the same with your mother ( _her_ , you remind yourself, it was the same with _her_ before everything fell to pieces). Nothing has changed, nor will it. There’s no possible way that you intend to acquiesce, to let her pretend that you have any sort of rapport besides the obligatory farce of blood relation, illicit kisses and creeping guilt aside. A hand in yours is a grievous insult, an embrace a mortal one. Always, her halting overtures are to be shrugged off or drawn away from.  
  
Yet here she is, arm around your shoulders, the brush of her lips half-realized and faint as she gently nuzzles the skin behind your ear, and strangely you have no desire to struggle loose or seethe in righteous indignation. You’re tense, yes, but somehow you’re not particularly inclined to move, even as she inches closer and gingerly reaches around with her other arm for a spectacularly awkward embrace.  
  
Fine. You’ve submitted, and she’s gotten what she so obviously wanted. She’ll gloat, you’ll stew, and things will eventually return to normal. That’s how it goes, and that’s how it will always be. It’s a small price to pay for her peace of mind.  
  
  
  
What are you even talking about?

  
   
Her peace of mind isn’t your issue to resolve. That’s ridiculous.  
  
 _Then why do you care,_ wheedles the part of your brain that is rapidly becoming far too obnoxious for your liking, _why should it matter to you whether or not she chooses to wallow in angst, lamenting your cold and cynical heart the entire way?_  
  
Her cheek brushes yours for a moment as she speaks. “Is it really this hard for you?”

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean this. Letting me do this.” Your elbows dig into your ribs a little as she briefly hugs you more tightly. “Letting me in. It’s tough, isn’t it? You put up this total ice queen front all the time and just push everyone away. Can’t you just admit you’re lonely already?”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. My pupal stage is long behind me, and as a breathtaking social butterfly I’m the talk of whatever scene I happen to grace with my presence. I hardly languish in Dickinsonian solitude.”  
  
She sighs, frustrated, and her breath tickles your ear. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Come on.”  
  
You can’t be lonely, not with her mooning over—no, _harassing_  you (apparently your prodigious vocabulary has deserted you in the face of high drama) day and night, not to mention the constant bombardment of Pesterchum messages and the vast expanse of the internet to distract you. The hours that you sit awake at night hunched over your laptop searching for anything to occupy your restless mind mean nothing, nor does the way that the empty halls of your home press in on you sometimes.  
Self-sufficiency is your watchword. It isn’t as though you’re secretly desperate for a shoulder to cry on.  
  
 _Please_. No one exposes their innermost vulnerabilities like that, or at all.  
  
You don’t know what she’s talking about.  
  
You’re doing just fine.  
  
The two of you are quiet for a few minutes, and her presence is somehow slightly more tolerable.  
  
Then she brushes the backs of her fingers across your cheek and murmurs, “There are days when I hate you.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“There are days,” she repeats “when I can’t fucking _stand_ you because you’re such a blind, hateful little jerkoff who’s too proud to admit that she might actually be wrong about me.   
“And then I wake up the next day and look at you, see how you don’t even IM your friends most of the time, how you park your ass in some dark corner of the house with a book, how you can’t even bring yourself to spend time with me, how fucking _lonely you are,_ goddamn it, and I just want to tell you that it’s okay, that I’m _here_ for you, and to hug you and never let go.  
  
I don’t know which you need more, a kick in the ass or someone to talk to.”  
  
“Well, there’s nothing preventing you from multitasking.”  
You hate to admit it, but her words sting. You know you need a kick in the ass - with both feet, even - but it hurts to hear it from someone who has been driving all your thoughts since you met.  
  
  
She doesn’t answer immediately, and for a little while there is nothing but her body and her breathing.

“Hey.”  
  
You look partway over at her, a question curling half-formed on your tongue, before you notice detachedly that oh, she’s _right there_ and her lips are—but no.  
  
She pulls away a fraction, face flushed and lips trembling, but she does not kiss you.  
  
  
“Sorry.” But there’s no remorse in her voice, only something you can’t quite identify.  
  
“No,” you rasp, and then, “no. You’re not.”  
  
“No,” she agrees, and you finally sound the depths of that undercurrent and realize that it’s sadness. “I’m not.”  
  
You reach over to take her hand, lacing your fingers together with hers, and she reaches up to rest them against her still-damp cheek; her eyelashes ghost against the knuckle of your middle finger.  
  
  
The both of you sit together in silence as the afternoon shadows blur longer into evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after seven months, the HSO, and a lot of personal upheaval, I finally managed to write and post this.
> 
> My apologies for the wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some very reluctant admissions are made, despite Rose's best efforts.
> 
> (Warning for some emetophobia stuff towards the middle.)

Somehow, that moment on the staircase flips a sort of switch between you; you see more of her after that, as though you’ve drawn her in like a magnet with your minute reconciliation. In retrospect, she was probably striving to not be in your presence. You’re a difficult sort of creature, but not terribly hard to avoid. With your tendency to sequester yourself in isolated rooms, it’s relatively easy to dodge interaction with you. Hiding in such a manner is a habit that you can’t seem to bring yourself to break, though you have a sneaking suspicion that it interferes with your ability to effectively maintain relationships. Kanaya would likely agree, were she to hear you admit it.  
  
Unlike the more extroverted of your friends, you are not a purely social creature. Retreat is a must for you, lest you grow biting and irritable from forced interaction. Your mother probably knew that, perpetually blitzed as she was; it’s a mercy that since you were stranded in the middle of the woods, there were never any dinner parties at which to trot you out like a show dog. You get the feeling that your wit would have proved an embarrassment to her in such a situation.  
  
Your mother’s young counterpart seemed to lack that sort of perceptiveness at first. In her attempts to draw you out into familial bonding, she inundated you with invitations to lunch, to the movies, to whatever had piqued her interest that day, regardless of your repeated disinclination to do anything whatsoever with her. It took her some time, but she eventually got the hint and ceased her attempts at engagement.  
  
When she asks you to dinner for the first time in months, you surprise both of you by saying yes.  
  
The reason why you do so escapes you at first before you’re struck by the decidedly uncomfortable realization that you’re beginning to see her as less of an irritant and more of a human being.  
  
After pondering over her invitation for the remainder of the afternoon, you arrive at the conclusion that yes, you _are_ dreading this little excursion. You have no idea how to act with anything more that frigid civility with her in public. Your mother was at least dignified in her attempts to lure you to her side; this just reeks of desperation.  
  
It also feels alarmingly like a _date_ , which is the _last possible thing that you want._  
  
Can you blame her for being desperate? You’ve successfully rebuffed every single offer she’s ever made over the course of months, along with denying her any sort of meaningful interaction apart from your recent arguments. When you contemplate it, she’s really entitled to a little desperation.  
How the newfound tension in your already strained relationship factors in, you‘d rather not dwell upon. You staunchly refuse to think about the possibilities that may arise from her attraction to you; despite your efforts, it keeps you awake on the rare occasions that you actually try to sleep.  
  
The moment of truth arrives as six-thirty rolls around, and you armor yourself in jeans and a v-neck shirt, pulling your jacket around you like an ermine mantle. If you’re going off to probable humiliation, you intend to do so in relative style. As you clamber into the passenger seat of your shared Range Rover, you give your dinner companion a quick once-over. She’s sober tonight, which is a colossal relief; having her booked for underage consumption of alcohol _and_ driving under the influence is not on your agenda and never will be. You haven’t the foggiest idea what caused her to do a nosedive off of the proverbial wagon after the end of the game. Knowing your ironically terrible luck, it probably had something to do with you. In the event that you ever crave a long and exhaustingly intimate conversation, you’ll ask her about it.  
  
Which is to say, never.  
  
Your ectorelation cranks the volume on the radio up, and you wince. Her taste in music is not at all like yours, tending mostly towards techno and dubstep, and it’s murder on your ears. The rare anomaly isn’t too atrocious; you don’t mind her occasional bouts of Sinatra. You still prefer Tchaikovsky or Mussorgsky, but compared to her usual taste Forties crooners could be far worse.  
  
You reach over and delicately twist the knob down and off, and your reward is a mildly perturbed “Hey!”  
  
“My eardrums were beginning to shrivel in protest. So sorry.”  
  
“What, you don’t like Adele? Who _doesn’t_ like Adele? Barbarian.”  
  
“No, it’s a fondness for dubstep that I lack.”  
  
“’Scuse you, it’s a pretty sweet remix. Like your crusty old dudes are so great.”  
  
“My ‘crusty old dudes’ are some of the pillars of classical music.”  
  
“Whatever, they’re still old and dead. Don’t act like you’re so superior, Miss I-Sing-Blondie-In-The-Shower-When-I-Think-Nobody’s-Listening.”  
  
You can feel your brow begin to furrow at her accusation. “I do _not._ ”  
  
She grins as she careens the car around the next turn. “You totally do! I’ve heard you do it!”  
  
“Vile calumny and lies. Blatant falsehood doesn’t behoove you, you know.”  
  
As you blow through a yellow light to a chorus of honking horns, she clears her throat with a flourish and does a startlingly good impression of you impersonating Debbie Harry. “ _Don’t leave me hangin’ on the telephone—Don’t leave me haaaaaangin’ on the teeeeeelephoooone!”_  She chortles. “Busted. _Soooo_ busted.”  
  
After a minute of mortified silence (how did she _know_ ) you ask, “What were you doing outside of my bathroom?”  
  
“I was passing by,” she says airily, flipping off a pallid young man in a silver Volvo, “when I heard the voice of a fair maiden gettin’ her Eighties on.”  
  
The seconds tick by before you finally say, “My room is at the extreme eastern end of the house. There’s nothing to pass by.”  
She sputters some excuse about being in the area before going very quiet and red-faced. You finish the drive in silence.  
  
What was she doing in your viciously staked-out territory? You both have an unspoken agreement not to venture into each other’s ends of your shared residence. Your house is an amalgam of both of your pre-game homes; fortunately, your location won out over hers, so instead of floating in a vast and boundless sea you’re stuck firmly in the Adirondack Preserve. Small mercies, you suppose. You were never too fond of sailing.  
  
The silence in the car has grown oppressive as you’ve pondered, so you turn your gaze to your troublesome relative. “Did you have anywhere in particular in mind for dinner, or are we swooping in to raid and pillage downtown Potsdam from the leather-upholstered interior of our mighty steed?”  
  
She shrugs, eyes pointedly on the road ahead. “I don’t know. I was thinking maybe Chinese, unless you’ve suddenly started craving Taco Bell or something.”  
  
“I’m not averse to Chinese, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
  
“Great. Chinese it is.”  
  
“Glorious.”  
  
“Bitchin’,” she agrees absently, whipping the car into a dubiously legal U-turn. Given that she grew up in a dystopian future stripped of both hope and vehicles, you have to wonder why Dave considered it a good idea to teach her how to drive. You conclude that he probably did it because he wasn’t obliged to actually drive with her afterwards, along with the entertainment value.  
  
Damn that boy.  
  
You pull into the parking lot of the somewhat cumbersomely named A-1 Oriental Kitchen after a few more minutes of your ectospawn’s white-knuckle approach to driving. The windchill is brutal as you get out of the car, and without a word both of you make a mad dash for the front door, only to lean gasping on the wall once you’re inside. “Jesus _tits_ it’s cold,” your indeterminate relative pants, and you nod in agreement as you lay a hand on her shoulder without thinking. She looks at it as though it’s some sort of rare bird of paradise, and you hastily jerk it away as you come to your senses.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
She shakes her head, still a little surprised. “Don’t be. Dude, it’s fine, it’s not like I’m _leprous_ or anything, geez.” You don’t think you could explain that that isn’t the reason why you don’t want to touch her without sounding like a complete idiot, so you simply say nothing as the hostess on duty guides you to a table in the corner. You shrug your coat off and take the seat that puts your back to the wall, as if positioning yourself for battle. If you flex your imagination a little, you sort of are.

Your relation plonks herself gracelessly down into the opposite seat and the two of you pick up your menus simultaneously. Her eyes meet yours over the top of the laminate, and you studiously glare at the entry for egg foo young.  You aren’t particularly hungry, but when the waiter comes by you place an order anyway. Wontons won’t kill you.  However, the conversation that you intend to have just might.

You open your mouth to speak, but she preempts you. “Is there _anything_ we can talk about that isn’t going to feel like doing the Electric Slide through a minefield?”  
  
“You were born into post-apocalyptic desolation. How do you even know what the Electric Slide _is_?”  
  
She shrugs. “Internet.”  
  
“Point taken, but—“ You’re cut off by her hand, splayed as if to halt you in your tracks.  
  
“Okay. In that case, I really need to talk to you about – drumroll please – _the thing._ ”  
  
“The thing,” you echo, dubious.  
  
“You know, _the thing.”_ She turns in her seat to check for eavesdroppers, then leans conspiratorially forward. “With us.” In spite of the almost humorous vagueness of her words, her expression and tone are deadly serious.

“I’m still not quite sure to what you’re referring—“ At that moment, the food arrives, and you gladly busy yourself by fumbling with your soup spoon. The waiter departs with a smile, and your ectorelation resumes right where she left off, leaving her lo mein steaming and untouched.  
  
“The thing,” she says quietly as you prod at a floating wonton, “where I’m really, _really_ into you. The thing where I hopped back on the Booze Cruise to Party Town trying to deal with it.” You feel a surge of guilt in spite of yourself; you’ve never been able to shake the youthful certainty that your mother drank because of you, and here you are being proven right, albeit in a different way. “The thing,” your relative continues, “where you reciprocated once, and I was absolutely fuckin’ _thrilled._ The thing you _still_ won’t really talk about.”  
  
How would you even begin to discuss something like that? How do you admit that what you want to say is _you’re beautiful_ or _I’m weak_ or, God forbid, _I want you?_ How do you confess that you hunger for her lips on yours and her hands on your body and her fingers tangled in your hair? How do you betray your own confidence and admit that you’re depraved enough to desire all of that earnestly and passionately?  
  
In another situation with another would-be lover, it would be poetic. Here, it’s just sad.  
  
“Thrilled? I distinctly recall being dubbed a sick fuck for indulging you.” You’re unprepared; you wanted to engage her on your terms, like a general commanding her firing line. Your battle plans have already gone gloriously awry.  
  
Good on you, Lalonde.

“Truthfully?” She shrugs, spearing a bean sprout on the tines of her fork and twirling it idly before setting it down. “I was mostly just cheesed off at myself for jumping you. I guess I thought if I didn’t act on it, I’d forget it. You know, disinclination through deprivation and whatevs. But _nooooo,_ I just _had_ to go in for muchas smooches.”  
  
Roxy (who has a name and is just as human as you, if not more so, no matter how you’ve demonized her in your discomfort) leans forward again. “So why’d you do it?”  
  
The question catches you entirely off-guard, and you respond with a weak “Do what?”  
  
“Why did you humor me? You could’ve just pulled away and been all ‘get thee behind me, creeper,’ but you went ahead and macked on me right back. Why’d you do that?”  
  
 _Because I wanted to_ is hard and dangerous on your tongue, but you don’t realize that you’ve actually said it until Roxy’s eyebrows make a valiant bid for the heavens. “’Scuse me?”  
  
You could let it go, play it off as some sort of ill-timed jest, but instead you betray yourself a second time. “I said, ‘because I wanted to.’”  
  
Roxy just stares at you, lo mein congealing on her plate. “So what does that mean?” The implied _for us_ in her question hangs over you like an executioner’s axe.  
  
You gaze down into the depths of your still-untouched soup, mouth dry.  
Your “I don’t know,” comes out far smaller than you expected.  
  
Roxy’s fingers brush against yours, and you manage to not recoil as she takes your hand. She runs her thumb back and forth over your knuckles; who the gesture is meant to reassure, you couldn’t say. “Thanks for being honest.” Once again her gaze meets yours, but this time you don’t look away. “For what it’s worth, I don’t know either.”  
  
“I think,” you say, finding your voice, “that we can start by leaving. I genuinely doubt that either of us is going to do so much as poke at our respective meals at this point.”  
  
“Yeah.” Roxy nods, a little too vigorously. “Yeah, you’re right. I wasn’t that hungry anyway – I just wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Then why go to the trouble of dragging me out to dinner?”  
  
“Because you’d rather pull a Cask of Amontillado and wall yourself up in the basement than talk to me about important shit because it makes you wicked uncomfortable. At least if I got you out of the house, you couldn’t escape. All according to keikaku, you know.” She waggles the fingers of her free hand and forces a grin.

“Wounded as I am by your use of trite memes, I’m forced to congratulate you on your astuteness.” She’s right; profound discussions that aren’t on your terms are something that you desperately strive to avoid. You didn’t think it was that obvious. Either you’re losing your touch, you haven’t given her nearly enough credit, or some combination of both. Probably both. “Does it really matter who picks up the check?”  
  
She snorts in amusement. “Psh, no.” It really doesn’t; the game’s boondollars converted themselves into a sizeable fortune in tax-free American currency upon your victory, and combined with your late mother’s assets you have more than enough to live comfortably. “I’ll do it, it’s fine.” And do it she does, after some minor squabbling over the tip; she isn’t of the opinion that twenty percent is practically mandatory (“Dude, I have to _like them._ ”). Another breathless sprint later, you’re back in the car and speeding once more towards the woods.  
  
Roxy doesn’t say a word on the ride back, and you don’t press her into conversation. For now, the silence proves a boon, as you’ve time to collect your thoughts. There’s a minorly shocking revelation for you to contemplate, after all.  
  
You hadn’t wanted to admit your attraction. Ever. Yet still the words fell from your lips like lost teeth after a fistfight, and here you are. Naturally, she was shocked. Or was that hope on her face? No, definitely shock. Hope would have been excruciatingly obvious.  
  
No, wait, you can’t be sure. Damn it.  
  
You restrain yourself from reaching up to massage your temples; the uncertainty is giving you a headache. Or perhaps it’s the guilt. In all likelihood, it’s the guilt.  
  
You do not want to feel anything for her. It troubles you on a deep and visceral level, as though your unease has settled immovably in your vitals. Were you stronger than you are, you could lock it away to wither and starve, but you are only human. You are plagued by mortal frailty as all humankind is, no matter how hard you deny and dismiss and attempt to drive it away through sheer force of will. Truth will win out, as it has today.  
  
This will not end well.  
  
As you arrive at that rather ominous conclusion, the wheels of your car crunch on the gravel of the drive. It appears that you’re home, and now the delicate camaraderie of dinner will vanish and be replaced by your habitual tension. Such are the ways of Lalondes. You can never be stable for too long.  
  
Roxy surprises you in the foyer by leaning down to peck you on the cheek. In your moment of inertia, you fail to protest, and the way that she looks at you afterwards hits something hot in you that’s kept quiet since you broke things off with Kanaya.  
  
You stammer an uncharacteristically disoriented goodnight and scuttle off to your end of the house to brood on your probable doom.  
  
Despite your intentions, you don’t end up doing an awful lot of brooding. Showering lulls you into something resembling exhaustion, so you absently towel yourself off and before fumbling your pajamas on and falling into bed. The enveloping fuzziness of near-sleep drapes itself over you without any fighting on your part, and as you drift off you wonder why you aren’t tossing and turning as you do every other time you brave the clutches of sleep. It’s too easy tonight, as though something is holding the door open for you.  
  
The Circle waits.  
You get the feeling that it’s going to be a very long night.  
  
As soon as the thought occurs to you that maybe this isn’t going to be a terribly pleasant experience, you find yourself standing on the roof of a castle, peering over the battlements at the chessboard terrain below. The scene is a familiar one. It’s where you died for the first time, along with being the scene of your mother’s murder. That you are there is unusual; most often you are already running when you begin to dream, hunted by things that man was not meant to know. The Noble Circle clearly has a preference for which methods they use to torment you.  
  
A howling wind whips your skirt around your ankles; your Converse are stained purplish-red to the uppers, as though you’ve been wading through blood. This is all as you remember it, right down to your ash-grey skin and the whispers in the center of your skull. You are brimming with the might of elder gods. You go to slay the Slayer, but even when you were living this for the first time you knew you would not succeed. You had seen probabilities in ghostly afterimages, fuzzy camera-flickers of the mind; you were to die here, and die you did. But now, after the fact, you must be here for a different reason. The Furthest Ring has never been less obvious with its machinations, and that in and of itself does not bode well.  
  
No, there is something else here for you tonight.  
  
You rest your hands on the stone of the battlements, granite cool under your palms as you gaze fixedly out at the Battlefield. Turning around would accomplish nothing. You know what you’ll see if you do. Denying your tormentors another small wave of grief to feed upon is worth next to nothing, but you have every intention of stalling the inevitable as much as you can. It’s the least and only thing you can do to brace yourself for the night ahead.  
  
You let yourself stare down at the terrain until you feel hands settle on your shoulder, and someone croons “ _Darling,”_ soft and breathy in your ear.  
  
You know that voice. You heard it every day of your life for thirteen years, and even now you hear it in your bleakest Circle-begotten nightmares.  
  
“Hello, Mother,” you say, as steadily as you can.  
  
You feel hot breath on your neck as she licks your earlobe. “’Hello, Mother?’ Is that all I get? Haven’t you _missed me_ , Rose?” One of her hands drops from your shoulder to slide up your thigh with agonizing slowness; you slap it away as quickly as you can, breathing a little too hard. “Of course you have. I _know_ you have.”  
  
You keep your voice cool and disinterested. “Only as demanded by social mores. I can arrange cake and balloons if you’re genuinely that put out.”  
  
“I appreciate your magnanimousness, honey, but there’s no need for any of that. All I ever wanted was for you to love me.” _This isn’t real_ , you remind yourself. _This isn’t real, she was never like this._ But your insistence is in vain, and as she kisses you behind your ear the hair rises up on the back of your neck. “But you never let yourself, did you? It was like you were incapable. Poor Rose, to be so _lacking._ ”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you hiss through your teeth. A cold sweat begins to break out on your back; your not-mother traces a fingertip along your collarbone, and you shiver. You can feel your skin crawl beneath her touch.  
  
She clicks her tongue in a short _tsk._ “You couldn’t let yourself love me. Or anyone. You were so wrapped up in your little games of wizardry and saving the world that I may as well have been a potted plant.”  
  
“I sprinkled you with gin every so often and ensured that your leaves were shiny and blight-free. You’re welcome.”  
  
“And thank you, o constant gardener, o Demeter of my heart. But it felt like obligation, dear, and that _rankled._ You’re right, I’m just the _tiniest bit_ put out.” She plucks at the knot in your sash, and you squirm. “Even SBURB meant more to you than I did. You didn’t even _look_ for me before I ended up skewered like a kebab on Barbeque Night. Imagine how I _felt_ , _ma cherie_.” That makes you flinch; your unforgivable negligence is something that you’ve regretted ever since the consequences came to light. Though you’d never admit it under pain of death, it still hurts you badly.  
  
Your not-mother chuckles as you recoil. “I’m sorry, _mon amour_. Did I hit a nerve?”  
Before you can respond with a quip, no matter how forced, her tone suddenly turns savage and her fingers dig into your shoulders. “ _Good.”  
  
_ Try as you might, no biting rebuttal comes out of your mouth, or anything at all. Your breathing is too fast, too shallow, your thoughts too scattered, your knees too weak. You’re panicking, and your customary eloquence deserts you in the face of unreasoning terror. You shouldn’t be this frightened by a figment, even by one designed to wound you, but somehow this is infinitely worse than a mindless pursuit.  
  
You are afraid.  
  
God, you are so afraid.  
  
“Look at me,” your not-mother says, and you can’t even whimper out a ‘no.’  
“ _Look at me,_ ” she snarls, and before you can try again she jerks you roughly around to face her.

 _  
There is blood on her lips_ is your first thought. _There is blood on her lips and it’s all my fault._ You dazedly try to will your hand up in order to wipe it away, but it stays useless at your side.  
  
When you grew old enough to make comparisons that were tolerably intelligent, you declared in your journals that your mother reminded you of a white rabbit, eyes pink and nose flushed with alcohol, pale hair feathering out around her shoulders. What little color there was to her before has washed out of her face in death, and her eyes are glazed and dull, the corneas faded by hundreds of tiny scratches. The prospect of following her down any rabbit holes fills you with horror.  
  
When she smiles at you, pleased by her small victory, you see that there’s blood coating her teeth in a fine film and you want nothing more than to scream until your throat gives out.  
  
“There,” she says, and her tongue is red with it too, “was that so hard?” You shake your head ‘no’ and she laughs, bright and beautiful and as joyous as you ever remember her being. “I thought not. Underneath it all, dear, you _do_ want to please me.”  
  
“No,” you croak. She frowns, the lines in her face like wounds, and for one brief shining moment before your voice gives out you think you’re going to win. “I don’t—“  
  
“You don’t?” Your not-mother rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Oh lord, what am I going to do? My entire life is a lie, wasted on an ungrateful little shit who can’t be bothered to care about anyone but herself.” She pauses, suddenly sly. “Or can she?”  
She cocks her head to the side in an obscene parody of sad curiosity.  
“Do you love me, Rosie?” she says, drawing close enough for your noses to touch. “Did you ever?”  
  
It’s too much. After everything heaped upon you in the last few minutes, you crack. “Yes,” you half-sob, wilting under her cloudy, sharklike gaze. “Yes, but not—“  
  
“Close enough,” your not-mother says, and she kisses you hard enough to hurt.  
  
You struggle at first, but she’s irresistible as an avalanche; this isn’t her, not really, but it feels real enough and that kicks your horrified flight instinct into high gear. You try to keep that mantra in mind – _this isn’t her, she wasn’t like this, she would never be like this_ – but it doesn’t work, and all you want is for her to stop. You do whimper as she bites down on your lip in the course of her kiss, and she stops; her tongue flicks out, lizardlike, to lap the blood from the wound she’s made. Something roils in your gut, and you shudder, feeling sick for a multitude of reasons.  
  
“Good girl,” she purrs, and pulls away smiling as something crawls in your belly, bile rising as you stagger and heave.  
  
 _Blurk.  
  
_ You retch, and a wriggling, oily black tentacle splats on the floor in a glot of inky fluid.  
  
 _Blurk.  
  
_ And another.  
  
 _Blurk.  
  
_ One and two turns into three-four-five-six, to a dozen, to a torrent. You sink to all fours, vision wavering as you retch again and the rough stone digs into your palms Your not-mother’s outline wavers as she looms over you; for a moment you are absolutely certain that she’s made of leeches, or octopuses, or worms, or other lumpen, crawling things wrapped in a tattered and bloody lab coat.  
You heave again, a gut-wrenching twist of your innards, and your jaws stretch impossibly wide as something pulls itself forth from inside you limb by writhing limb. A tentacle caresses your arm, coiling round your wrist like a lover’s fingers. A single tri-lobed eye pops forth on a stalk and regards you with something like adoration. You’ve been so _good,_ so _loyal,_ you’ve opened yourself so _wide_ to Them, it would be so _easy_ to do it again—  
  
You wake tangled in the sheets, throat raw and burning as your breath comes in shaky whines.    
  
Roxy is sitting on the end of your bed, expression caught squarely in that no-man’s-land between concern and horror, and she is possibly the last person you want to see right now. To your credit, you do not scream.  
  
The two of you stare at each other for an agonizingly long moment before she stammers out an excuse. “You were— I thought— I couldn’t—“ she takes a deep breath and tries again. “You were pulling some crazy Exorcist shit, so I called the priests and now we owe the Pope twenty-five grand. You can thank me later, Linda Blair.” You fix her with the most unimpressed look you can muster while you’re still so unmitigatedly freaked, and she winces upon seeing that her feeble joke has fallen flat. “Sorry. What I meant was, you were kind of…not sleeping so great, and I just figured I’d sit here in case you needed somebody when you woke up. Fuck, that sounds creepy. I swear it isn’t.”  
  
Your face must reflect your dismay, because she holds up her hands in a placatory gesture. “I’m not watching you catch some Z’s or anything. That would be weird as hell. I just—“ Roxy glances down at the floor, unwilling to meet your gaze. “I come to check on you sometimes. To make sure you’re okay.” As your brows rise up in an obvious expression of your surprise, she blurts, “So yeah. How’re you feeling?”  
  
For fuck’s sake, how does she _think_ you’re feeling? Like sunshine and rainbows all aglow?  
  
“Just _fabulous_ ,” you wheeze. She fidgets a little in obvious discomfort. Being caught in the act probably isn’t too pleasant for her, but considering what you’ve just been through in your own head, you have no sympathy for other unpleasantness. Oddly, you haven’t any urge to be smug about it. You suppose it’s a consequence of failing to dehumanize her any longer. “Is there a reason you’re perched upon my bed like a pajama-clad gargoyle, or are you just admiring the scenery?”  
  
At that, she looks almost offended. “I was going to ask if you wanted to talk about it. And I’m not _perched_ , Jesus.”  
  
“And why,” you ask, “would I have any desire whatsoever to discuss something that violates my composure in such an obvious manner?”  
  
Roxy picks at a fingernail for a moment before answering. “It’s not going to kill you if you open up a little,” she says quietly. “I’m just trying to help.”  
  
You shouldn’t feel any guilt over her attempted invasion of your privacy, but you do. Irritating though it may be, she really does appear to have only the best of intentions. Maybe this is one thing that you should take at face value. In your pondering, you fail to notice that Roxy hasn’t stopped talking, and though you miss most of her impassioned speech, you snap back to reality as her voice rises in volume. “–can’t bottle all that shit up forever, so just _talk to me,_ okay?” She’s staring at you again, and contained in her gaze is a healthy helping of frustration. You shift uncomfortably under the weight of your guilt. _Someone_ is certainly bent on breaching your defenses.  
  
What can it hurt to let her pass through a gate or two for a little while?  
  
You pull yourself upright, ignoring your woefully stiff back as you sit up and pull on your slippers. Roxy eyes you warily. “Where are you going?”  
  
“I’ve been stricken with a desire for some tea. You’re welcome to join.”  
  
Surprised, it takes her a moment to stand and wait for you. “Yeah, sure.”  
  
You finish tugging your slippers on and beckon her onward, and as you descend the stairs she trails after you like a somewhat dazed puppy. The entire first floor is a pit of unadulterated blackness, and it takes you a few less-than-poised swats at the wall before you locate the light switch. As for the late-night-in-January frigidity of your environs, you don’t bother hunting for the thermostat; you won’t be down here long.  
  
The kitchen seems to stretch on forever with your jangled nerves, so you opt against going on an expedition for your usual blend and stick to the bags in a box by the stove. They’re less than ideal, but given that you’re still rattled you absolutely cannot be bothered with anything requiring any more effort. To hell with properly boiling water as well; in Roxyesque terms, you intend to nuke that shit. The resulting brew is bound to be atrocious, but adequately prepared tea is not high on your list of priorities right now. If you have to bare a small corner of your soul, you want it to be as quick and painless as possible.  
  
You whip through the teabags-water-microwave process as swiftly as you can, and after the requisite minute for heating up the unfortunate concoction is up you pass Roxy a mug (a hideous thing proclaiming that the drinker is the _WORLD’S BEST MOM_ ) and settle down opposite her at the kitchen table. She takes a sip, making a face as the apparently foul taste kicks in. “So, yeah. Talk to me?” As her grimace fades, her eyes are pleading, and for now you have it in you to relent.  
  
More accurately, you don’t have it in you to stay aloof.  
  
A tendril of steam curls around your chin, and your knuckles tighten around the handle of your own mug (which is obnoxiously orange and screams that _IF YOU CAN THINK IT, DRINK IT!)._ “There’s not a lot to say. I don’t sleep well, which you’ve probably noticed already.”  
  
She nods. “It was kind of obvious. So why is that?”  
  
“Because I prefer not to deal with eldritch abominations acting like petulant children because I’m not foolish enough to embrace them with open arms for a second time.”  
  
Roxy quirks a brow, confused. “Who what now?”  
  
“The Noble Circle,” you say, carefully running a finger around the rim of your mug, “wants me back in the fold. I went to them once, and that taste was enough to cement my certainty that I never want to do it again.” You prefer not to dwell upon your short-lived state of grimdarkness. Living it once was enough.  
  
“So you only conk out like once every couple of days because they’re flipping a shit in your head when you sleep?”  
  
You take a sip of your tea and immediately regret it. Tonight’s blend really isn’t one of your better efforts. “Usually they’re ludicrously blatant in their efforts to frighten me into obedience, but tonight they decided to do things in a decidedly Freudian way. Consequently my nightmares tend to be on the warped side.” Don’t let her ask. Please, God, don’t let her ask.  
  
Roxy does you an enormous favor by not inquiring further. “So yes.”  
  
“So yes.”  
  
“So you’re fucking your sleep patterns over because you don’t want to deal?”  
  
That sort of weakness has never been something you cared to admit, so you begin to protest with a “Well—“ but Roxy fixes you with a look that is so firmly _Mother_ that the bottom drops out of your stomach. You cautiously try your tea again in hope of improvement – Shub-Niggurath’s teeming brood, that’s _vile_ – and manage a faint “Essentially.” Roxy motions for you to elaborate, and you oblige. “I think the last time I slept was on Wednesday. I’m not sure. At least more than two days ago.”  
  
Her expression doesn’t shift to contempt, but concern, and instead of ‘what the fuck is wrong with you,’ she simply asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?” She pushes her mug to the side with one finger. “I mean, I figured something was up, but if you’d just _told_ me I would’ve— hell, I don’t know. Helped somehow, I guess.”  
  
“How? It’s out of your hands.” You give up on your tea entirely and get up in order to dump it in the sink. Roxy follows suit, inadvertently bumping your shoulder. You flinch, remembering your not-mother’s hands.  
  
“I don’t know, okay? You could sleep with me or something if it’d help.” Of all the things to offer, especially with what you’ve just been through _and_ your newly acknowledged mutual attraction, why this? You have to wonder if it’s an unusually transparent attempt at maneuvering you into her lustful clutches. Then again, she’s seemingly too forthright for that.  
  
Roxy watches you almost expectantly. There is something pitifully hopeful in her face, no matter how she tries to mask it behind a façade of casual helpfulness. The odds that this is some sort of ploy feel as though they’re decreasing by the second. As you go to rinse out your mug, her fingertips brush the back of your hand.  
  
You choose your words with exceeding care. “As generous as your offer is, I’m going to have to decline.” No matter her intentions, it stings to see her crestfallen. Your attitude towards her really must have softened more than you thought. “But thanks. I really appreciate it.”  
  
All she does is nod. “Offer’s always on the table if you want it.”  
  
“Thank you. Really.” Your implements of mass teastruction dealt with, you turn to head back up to your room.  
  
As your foot hits the first riser, Roxy pipes up from behind you. “Sure you’re okay?”  
  
You glance back over your shoulder at her, and she does appear to be genuinely invested in your welfare. “Really, I’m fine.”  
  
“If you say so. “ Roxy shrugs. “See you in a couple hours, okay?” She hesitates a moment before adding, “I’ll do breakfast or something.”  
  
“When I’m awoken by the rapturous clangor of the smoke detector, I’ll be sure to thank you.”  
  
“Come on, I’m totes serious. I’ll make pancakes.”  
  
“Consider your offer accepted. I’ll retire to bed and await my room service.”  
  
“Room service, my ass. ‘Night.”  
  
“Goodnight.” Against your better judgment, you add, “Thank you for your company.”  
  
She waves a hand in airy dismissal. “No biggie. I like spending time with you, when you let me.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“No, seriously.”  
  
“Goodnight, at any rate.”  
You can feel her eyes on your back until you reach the top of the stairs and close the door behind you. Her reaching out makes you unjustifiably nervous, and your constant acceptance of such even more so.  
And yet, you can’t stop saying yes.  
  
Something is wrong with this picture.  
  
You’re fairly certain that it’s you.  
  
You lie in bed and watch the first rays of the sun devour the twilight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The A-1 Oriental Kitchen does actually exist in Potsdam, NY. I have not been there.
> 
> As for the terms of endearment, I don't actually speak French, so they're probably somewhat off.


	5. Chapter 5

She makes you seared-black pancakes in the morning, and neither of you broach the subject of your illicit attraction for six whole months. How you manage that epic feat of nondisclosure is absolutely beyond you; you don’t take any evasive maneuvers in conversation. If she does, it’s with a subtlety that you never knew she possessed.

Passive, platonic coexistence is not a state that you’re accustomed to. In a way, the lack of conflict frustrates you; without an adversary, you’re completely at a loss. You thrive on resentment and virulent contempt, you know that much. Sometimes you fervently wish that you didn’t possess such keen insight into the diabolical machinations of your psyche. The sparking axons and twining neurons that hold all that you are lack a solution to your predicament, and you are as aimless as an upended howitzer.

Roxy is not to blame. You’re not so petty and juvenile as to make her shoulder all culpability. At least, you aren’t any more. No, the burden of responsibility for your state of bewilderment lies solely with your inability to peacefully cohabitate with anyone besides a cat. With your mother, you had years of heartfelt adversarial relations to fuel your fire; with Kanaya, you had the unwavering certainty that she was head over heels for you. With Roxy, you have only the sinking feeling that your relationship is about to boil over into something you both hunger for and fear.  
  
You know that she’s in love with you. At least, you think you do.

It’s so very, very easy to fall back into suspicion and arrogance and worn-thin derision, even though you tell yourself that you’re a new person, a more mature, reasonable Rose Lalonde.  
Old habits die hard. Old habits die begging as the crowd backs away, and you’ve always despised desperation in any form. The more that you tell yourself that you’ve changed, the harder it gets to listen, and you hate the frantic note that you hear in your head every time that you do.   
Kanaya attempted to reassure you with statements in the vein of _at least you’re trying, Rose, and that’s more than can be said for most_ , but it doesn’t feel as though you are. It never has, no matter what you’ve been told or who has done the telling, no matter the knowledge that your thought processes are perhaps the least objective you’ve ever seen in your life.  
  
It’s hard to see the fishbowl when you’re ramming your head against the sides.

Roxy doesn’t know. Roxy can’t know, because Roxy just _traipses through life_ without expending any effort whatsoever, like everyone else on the face of this misbegotten rock of a planet except for you. Is that overly-self-pitying? Perhaps, but at the moment you cannot be bothered to give one single fuck, because it’s true.  
  
You find swans an apt comparison, paddling madly away under the surface as they float with apparent serenity. No, not swans; perhaps a cygnet, drab and awkward, as you don’t even have a façade of elegance to hide behind. So you cloak yourself in sarcasm and wordplay and smothering condescension and dare the world to tear it all from your shoulders.  
  
Kanaya tried and failed.  
  
  
Roxy has done it without even breaking a sweat.

It keeps you awake all those brisk spring months, when you fight sleep and the terrors that come with it. You draw upon your convictions and force your bloodshot, aching eyes open against the night. The grip of your foreboding is stronger than that of sleep, and for that you’re grateful most of the time, even if it makes your forced insomnia so much worse.

When you at last submit to the clutching fingers of Morpheus, the experience is invariably an unpleasant one. Small mercies that you’ve yet to vomit up another horrorterror, though you have a nagging feeling that you haven’t seen the end of such things. The effect on you was too potent for the Circle to pass up.  For the moment, you experience such garden-variety torments as being devoured alive and having the flesh slough off your bones like a slow-roasted chicken. All very dull, all very predictable in their frights. You can bear it.

At least, you can bear it until your traitorous, horrorterror-addled brain springs more Oedipal imagery on you. Night after night, your mother’s lips and tongue and teasing, pernicious fingers leave you shaking and bathed in the icy sweat of the viscerally horrified. The Circle has found a fingernail-thin vein of your deepest weakness, and they gleefully mine it for the glinting gems of your darkest fear. They haul fistfuls of hard-faceted and glittering terror to the surface of your mind whenever they can reach you. In the bleaker hours of the night, your psyche ends up stripped and raw.

April is the cruelest month. On the thirteenth, you end up trembling with your head in your hands as you sit slumped on the edge of your bed at three in the morning after yet another grueling vision of warped desire. If you let yourself think about it too much, you can still feel the bruises. You sit there for a long time until your breathing evens out and your heart stops hurling itself against your ribcage.  
  
Dimly, you register footsteps padding gently on the carpet, and the bed creaks as Roxy sits next to you.  
  
She lays a hand on your shoulder and doesn’t ask questions when you flinch before hesitantly leaning into her touch.  
  
A few months ago, you would have immediately dismissed the concept of even allowing her in your quarters, let alone permitting her to see you in one of your weaker moments. Things really have changed; your relationship has mutated into something almost palatable, despite the curious affliction of your lust.  
 

It’s funny, really, if you think about it. You reviled her by proxy for so long that you assumed she would be identical in motivation and action to her predecessor. They’re similar, it’s true; lonely, vulnerable women who turned to the bottle to cope. But where your mother had the jaundiced disdain of the truly hopeless, Roxy still held out for improvement no matter how often you shot her down. Perhaps your mother was the same way, before you ruined her.

  
No matter how the Circle insists, your mother was not a monster. Neither is Roxy. 

  
You’re beginning to think that maybe you need her.  
  
You don’t know quite how to feel about that.

 

The fathomless rabbit-hole of self-analysis beckons. You can pick apart your motivations until the world falls down around your ears, and ordinarily you would, but the memory of the seething abhorrence that characterized your previous relationship with Roxy turns your stomach and sets your teeth on edge. You have no desire to return to that consuming sort of loathing. You don’t think that you _can._ It would eat you alive, and then where would you be? Alone in your little bubble of misdirected, misplaced hatred once again.

 

No. You can’t do that. But examining yourself deeply enough to consider Roxy’s value to you would open that avenue of thought again; thinking that she’s deliberately making you need her is a very alluring possibility, and an extremely easy one to swallow. It isn’t true, no matter how much you wish it was. The only way to avoid it is to not dissect yourself at all. To escape that self-inflicted purgatory, you have to leave well enough alone.

  
You’ve never been good at that.  
  
But the best-laid plans of mice and Lalondes inevitably go horribly awry, and your resolution to simply let things be crumbles before the monolithic fact that Roxy, despite her half-year of inaction, doesn’t know when to stop digging.   
  
You have to wonder just why it is that you’ve been left undisturbed so long in the wake of Roxy’s hanging your dirty laundry out to dry. Were you as suspicious as you used to be, you could swear that she’s plotting something. But no, that’s ridiculous. She doesn’t have a cunning bone in her body.  
  
You are proven spectacularly wrong one evening in late June.

   
She tries to make you both dinner. That really should tip you off right at the start, but your arrogant presumption that she was too straightforward for manipulation refuses to allow you to even entertain the possibility. Instead, you avoid the decidedly crispy asparagus (of which you’ve never been fond) and chew your way through a steak so rare it could probably moo if it tried. Roxy watches you like a hawk, and you’re compelled to assure her multiple times that yes, you _are_ enjoying your meal, thank you.  
  
The real trouble begins when the drinks come out.  
  
Roxy fixes herself some godawful concoction involving an unholy brew of liquors topped by a slice of orange perched jauntily on the rim of her glass. You eye it with mild alarm and not-so-mild distaste. “You’re actually going to subject your liver to _that?_ ”  
  
She shrugs. “Call it a hypothesis in the process of confirmation. You want something?”  
  
You hesitate; the game gave you your own issues with alcohol, but… “Wine would be nice.”  
  
“Way ahead of you.” Roxy gestures with a flourish at a pair of bottles lurking near the schnapps. “White or red?”  
  
“White, I think.”  
  
“Your wish is my command.” She fills your glass with surprising grace, no wine slopped upon the counter. Grace is something you can appreciate, especially in her. The thought makes you acutely aware of the bend of her wrist and the set of her shoulders and a host of other things you’d rather not contemplate right now, and as soon as she hands you the wineglass you down half the contents in one gulp. She gives you a slightly astonished look, but says nothing as you continue to drink. Within thirty seconds your glass is empty. You can feel the beginnings of a buzz behind your temples, so you gaze significantly at the bottle in Roxy’s hand.  
  
She gives you a wary, careful look. “Are you sure?”  
  
“I’ll be fine.” You _will be_ , damn it _._ You just need the edges softened a little, is all. No one can blame you for that.  
  
“If you’re sure,” she says, uncertainty writ large in her expression, and fills your glass halfway before setting the bottle on the counter. “But after this I’m cutting you off. Backyard?”  
  
Were you yourself from not so long ago, you’d comment on the hypocrisy of it all – an alcoholic concerned about the state of your liver? Please. But you are not the you of before, and thus you refrain. “Backyard it is. Lead on, fair lady, lead on.”  
  
By the time you step out the back door into the muggy evening, you’ve emptied your glass a second time and the edgy feeling you’ve had all day has gone pleasingly fuzzy. You’re not drunk, far from it; lightweight though you may be, it takes more than two glasses of wine to get you into such a state as you were in on the meteor. Your head is clear(ish) and your diction remains unslurred. You are perhaps tipsy at most, just enough to let you relax.   
Roxy flops down on the doorstep, jean-clad legs splayed. On a whim, you take the step just below her; the brick is warm against your thighs, even this late in the day. You don’t mind her proximity; actually, you welcome it. Through the months you’ve grown, as the song goes, accustomed to her face.  
  
She closes her legs slightly, knees bumping your ribs. “So I have a confession to make.”  
  
“Do tell.” And here you were, thinking that you’d already unearthed every sordid secret your bloodline could provide. Oh, you. So naïve. _  
_  
She inhales, knees tightening momentarily, and expels her revelation in one long breath. “The reason that I didn’t say anything about us after that one day is because I kind of went all Bill Nye on your ass and observed you for months as part of an experiment.”  
  
There is a small part of you that indignantly shrieks _you fucker!_ , but it’s probably just the wine talking. On the whole, you’re shocked. You’ve been outfoxed. That never happens; you pride yourself on your mental maneuverability. And here is silly, straightforward Roxy, thinking circles around you.  
  
You didn’t even _notice._  
  
For a moment, your emotions blur from surprise to irrational anger to a faint ping of grudging respect before you ask, “Why?” _  
  
_Roxy sucks another breath in through her teeth and exhales again, softer this time. “Simple scientific process. I just watched and recorded my observations. Not like I could set up a control or anything, but whatever. I was curious to see if you’d make a move on your own, and you didn’t. Experiment over.” She pats you idly on the shoulder and abruptly changes tack. “So why didn’t you? Nerves? Or are you not legit interested?”  
  
“I’ve already admitted that I’m very much interested. What more do you want out of this? A written confession, properly witnessed and signed in blood?” There it is, out in the open again. Funny, really. The more you say it, the easier it becomes to say.  
  
“Yeah, sure, let’s get some witnesses up in this bitch. Come on, the world must know of our skeevy crush that dare not speak its name. Didn’t you already do the signed in blood thing with the note on the fridge?”  
  
“Misquoting Douglas for less than savory purposes? For shame, ignoble wench.” Roxy’s hand brushes your collarbone, and you shiver in spite of the heat.  
  
“What, are the Poetry Police gonna beat my ass? It’s not important anyhow. I have bigger things on my mind, Miss Short Pale and Broody.”  
  
“I don’t _brood_.” That catches your attention. Hopefully she’s about to cease sidestepping her point. “And what would those bigger things be?”  
  
From where you sit, you can’t see the grin on her face, but you can definitely hear it in her voice. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”  
  
“I would, actually. Humor me.”  
  
“ _You,_ dingus. You, you, and you again. 3x you combo.” She curls her fingers against your neck before returning her hand to your shoulder. You can’t relax. You’ve had enough to drink, but you can’t relax. She’s put you on edge again, damn her.  
  
“Really? From your usual thought processes, I would have thought that you were indulging in remembrances of drinks past.”   
  
“And you were thinking of the best way to pick my brain, but you don’t see me calling you on that. Oh, wait.”  
  
“Touche.” Months ago, you would never have conceded so easily; you’d have fought to the conversational death in order to maintain your façade of effortless wit. Now, though, it doesn’t seem to be worth it. Things have changed indeed. In the gap following your concession, you imagine Roxy smiling a little at her tiny victory, and contemplate having the last word.  
  
You decide against it. Let her win this time.

“You asked what I wanted out of this whole stupid thing?” A bead of sweat runs down the small of your back; it’s hot out here in the wavering-yellow furnace heat of midsummer, even after dusk. Denim scrapes on brick, and Roxy presses her sweltering body against your back, arms curling over into your lap.  A shallow half-moon of liquid is all that’s left in her glass, the ragged orange splayed on the rim like a flare sent up from a sinking liner.  
  
“I wanted,” she murmurs, setting the glass down to the side with a _clink_ and a faint wobble; her newly-freed hand flutters over to rest mothlike on your thigh. “To see you flustered. Off-kilter. Out-of-whack. You don’t react to _shit_ , girl, don’t even try to deny it. A little surprise would’ve done it for me, you know? Foxy Roxy the Wonder Drunk, beating off her inner demons with a whip and a chair and a whole fuckin’ truckload of _cojones_. The audience gasps, standing ovation, blah blah blah.” Her other hand is fiddling at the hem of your t-shirt, nosing it upwards with more patience than you’ve seen from her yet. “But that’s not really it.”  
  
You set your glass down next to hers with as much delicacy as you can currently muster. “Then what _is?_ Sheer perversity? Lack of forethought? O motivation, where art thou?”  
  
“Shut your face and I’ll _tell_ you.”  
  
“My lips are zipped.”  
  
“Fuck you, that’s _my_ schtick. _Anyway.”_ She leans forward – _all the better to eat you, my dear_ – in order to bring herself closer, and you smell key lime and sweat and the faintest cold vapor-trail of the remnants of her drink.   
  
Her lips brush against your earlobe, and when she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper. “What I wanted, what I _really_ wanted, was to get to see you vulnerable. But not like crying your eyes out over _Pan’s Labyrinth_ vulnerable, I’ve already seen you do that like three times so just shut up and listen.” Her fingertips have gone skirling up the soft skin of your belly and ferretted beneath the cup of your bra in order to tease the nipple there, and with the first gentle roll you’re tense, anxious, _wanting_.  
  
The knuckles of her other hand ghost over your inner thigh, moving inward under your skirt. “The other kind. The kind that you can’t let yourself let _anybody_ see, the kind that makes you lock your doors every single goddamn time you’re in your room, the kind that makes _sure_ you don’t even own one tiny-ass little vibrator _which I checked for,_ by the way.“  You open your mouth to protest, but a tongue-tip tracing part of your jawline shuts you up in a hurry, as does the palm pressing gently between your legs. “I wanted to see you that kind of vulnerable.”  
  
She kisses your neck, vodka and intention and not much else.  
  
“I wanted to see you wet and whimpering and fuckin’ _aching_ for it, Rose. I wanted to see you _beg.”  
  
_ There is one, lone, singular, solitary finger slowly stroking you through your underwear. No pressure, no trembling, just stroking, stroking, stroking.  
  
You’re wet already and you _know_ she can feel it.  
  
It’s driving you mad.  
  
Roxy drawls in your ear, soft and melted-sugar sweet. “What I want, Rosie, is for you to beg for _me.”_


End file.
